


Ramblings of an Augur

by Saberaq



Category: Dungeons & Dragons (Roleplaying Game), Dungeons & Dragons - All Media Types
Genre: Demons, Devils, Forgotten Realms - Freeform, Forgotten Realms Elements, Fun, Gen, Lich, Magic, Necromancy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-22
Updated: 2021-02-23
Packaged: 2021-03-12 08:35:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 3,568
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29631966
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Saberaq/pseuds/Saberaq
Summary: The Lord of Mortality, up and coming Lich and Lawful Evil God of Death, awakens in a world that sees him as a paragon of chaos and good. Determined to reshape his image proper, he embarks upon a journey across the multiverse to convince an endlessly stubborn people that he is something they think him not to be.
Kudos: 1





	1. Chasm of Malady

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The newly Lichified Augur of Entropy eschews his old title to become the Lord of Mortality, and works to create a lair that would garner the respect of the dark gods.

'Just as tools were wrought of iron,  
Men were wrought of flesh,  
And by creator man and god alike,  
They found equal purpose.'  
-The Lord of Mortality, upon the creation of Malady.

Come the end of the Rite of Awakening, as the Lord existed for his first breathless moments as a Lich, he had ambitions to harness a portion of Avernus' hellscape as his own. A scar of the endless Blood War; Malady, he had called it. It was certainly not land Avernus would miss, as it reeked of the Demonic taint of Orcus. No one could exactly pin where it had came from, not even the ancient fallen angel that ruled over the Infernal layer. All the Lord knew was that he must have it, both as a symbol of status, and a proper lair. Until now, the Lord had been operating within an underground penitentiary, and this would simply not do as the scale of his efforts increased. 

The land was black, ridden thick with fell energy. It was as if the mere concept of shadow had spilt into crimson-skied Avernus, blighting the land around it, expanding ever outward, slowly, yet perpetually. The chasm reeked of decay and failure, and it made living skin feel as if it were cooking within a freezer, the worst effects of both heat and cold. This was not the first time the Lord had travelled these lands. He was a lowly mortal once, and it brought a smile to his wretched face as he felt the lack of temperature tormenting him.

Wordlessly, the Lord knelt into the black fields, looking up into the empty voidsky that imitated the tortured soil beneath him. In his hands, he wielded the tome he had fought for endlessly: the Book of Vile Darkness. He flipped through it's terrible, infinite pages, finding several rituals and incantations of Conjuration. He took a particular interest in the notion of extraplanar slavery- what a delightful irony it would be to enslave a Demonic host to work in the land of their most hated adversaries. He reveled in such sadism.

As such, he worked tirelessly, exploiting his Undead nature as much as he could manage. In a month, he had a mighty host of Demonic slaves under his control, working with his Undead horde in tandem to create a decrepit paradise within his Malady. 

The Demons worked to invade various Planes of reality for resources, mining away at the mountains of Elemental Earth and gathering the bountiful crop seeds of Arborea. The Undead horde worked to maximize the efficiency of the acquired resources, fashioning bricks of stone and metal pipings. Within a year of work, assisted with the arcane will of the Lich that led the horde, Malady had gone from a dreadful land to a dreadful land that wasn't as hard on the eyes.

A mighty keep of ivory had been erected, a chapel and palace in equal measure. It was crowned with stained glass panels displaying the Lord of Mortality's rise to power, a display as glorious and everlasting as he was. Contained within would be his hellish armies, as well as his everlasting court of Undead contemporaries. He laid black carpets inlaid with golden filagree upon it's floors, dully satisfied by its simple, yet elegant nature. 

Surrounding it was a quaint town with bland housing, constructed only because it was demanded of him. It was hard for Archduke Zariel not to notice the masses of Demons and zombies going in and out of her Avernus, and once she had caught wind of the Lord's machinations, she declared that he would either find a way to properly serve a tithe of souls, or have his Malady be eradicated. This was his solution: a farm of men. It served a dual purpose: to feed both his phylactery and the demands of the Archduke. That, and a zombie didn't need it's soul anymore when it was reanimated. The Lord was a little prideful of his own ingenuity. A few families had been stolen from a nameless village, where the people would live a simple, just barely comfortable life, enough to live, but never to thrive. With time, the people would multiply, and the town would expand. Pleasing mortals was not so hard, the Lord found, though the godsawful temperature was certainly a hurdle. Some Abjurative patchings would have to suffice.

His crowning achievement had to be Malady's farmlands. The theorems and rituals thoroughly engineered and elaborated upon consumed most of the project's time, but once he had reached his conclusion, it was the closest thing to carnal satisfaction the Lord had probably ever felt. To find a way to grow such lively crops in his land of decay was a miracle. Zombies worked to tend the incredible fields, and the Lord gathered what was reaped and distributed it to the villages of the Material Plane in exchange for idle worship. Through enough of this practice, he planned to glean at godhood. 

The Lord of Mortality sighed with satisfaction as he looked over his dominion. It was small, undeniably, but it was to grow, to expand it's reach like a baleful flower's petals. He sat upon his gilded throne with pride, his arms crossed and his eyes shut to take in the bare notions of an atmosphere. For the first time in what felt like eons, he felt relaxed, truly untouchable. There was little in the multiverse that could stop him now. His Malady was effectively autonomous, expanding as much as it needed to as long as his bound Demons and Undead continued to slave away. 

So relaxed, the Lich was, that he could sleep...


	2. Delayed Apotheosis

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The weight of the Lord of Mortality’s sins crash upon him as he wakes up from a nap that lasted half a millennium.

The Lord stretched his fetid limbs outward, shaking off the aches of motionlessness. He looses a loud yawn, rubbing at his eyes through the ebony mask. With his vision unobstructed, he looked around his throne room, pausing at the fact he recognized almost nothing.

He definitely didn't recognize the star-struck strangers looking up to him in awe.

"...who in the hells are you?" groggily mumbled the Lord to no individual in particular.

"He has awoken!" a knight in black exclaimed.

"Our Lord has awoken!" another, identical soldier shouts, the room beginning to ring with cheer and other such shouting. "It's time for the Danse Macabre!"

"The what?!" the Lord snaps, rising from his throne, hovering in the air above it. "Who are you people?! What is this 'Danse Macabre', what are you doing in my Malady?!" The room went quiet at the Lord's rancorous tirade, allowing one of the black knights to step forward. His armor was gilded with a fine auric filagree, what seemed to be a distinguished Imp sitting dutifully upon his shoulder. He had a little purple dress coat on, and a miniature monocle. 

"We are your royal advisors, milord," the fanciful knight claims, the Imp upon his shoulder sitting himself up straight to look more official. "For the five-hundred years you've been at rest-"

"Five-hund- no. No!" the Lord interrupts fiercely, "I should disintegrate you where you stand for your fallacy!"

"Well," the Imp finally spoke up in his raspy chain-smoker voice, "What year is it, mister lord?"

"Uh..." The Lord fell back into his throne, itching his head in contemplation. After a long pause, he spits out, "998 Dale-Reckoning."

"Wow," the gilded knight hums as he exchanges a curious glance with the Imp. "On the dot!"

"You see, mister lord-"

"Stop calling me that," the Lord quickly demanded, "either 'mister' or 'lord', just pick one. Both gives me conniptions."

"...well. Mister, then," continued the Imp, "the year is 1498, the Year of Black Regalia."

"What kind of easterner calendar did you use to get that result?" huffed the Lord in his relentless skepticism. "I took one nap. One nap! An hour at most!" In his desperation, he began speaking with his hands, the reeking digits making evocative gestures that just had to make their speaker truthful. "How would I have even fed my phylactery if I was asleep for 500 years? I'd be a floating skull thing!"

"Uh, sire," the gilded knight spoke up, "The city-state of Malady automatically fed it's dead souls to you. And, uh, you kind of stopped needing the phylactery some time after you became a god."

"...okay, now I know for sure, you're lying to me," the Lord sighed, rubbing his hands together before mumbling the verbal component for Disintegrate.

"Wait, wait!" the Imp shrieks in his horrible voice. "He's not joking! You got clerics and everything, this place even doubles as a church, I mean, c'mon! You got thousands of worshippers out there, hundreds of thousands, maybe!" The Lord pauses at these claims. He looked up at nothing, trying to listen to 'prayers' he was supposed to grant, or something. 

'Lord of Mortality, please rid my village of this plague.'

'Lord of Mortality, grant me the strength to raise a horde to overtake the cruel Patriars of Baldur's Gate.'

'Lord of Mortality, give me the secret of Lichdom! I know damn well you have it!'

"This is a lot at once," the Lord sighs, pinching his brow. "Have I... seriously just been a god for five centuries and no one ever thought to wake me? What kind of royal advisors are you?"

"We honestly thought you weren't wholly asleep," spoke the knight. "You've been sending avatars across the Material Plane, we really thought you only took the form of slumber so that we wouldn't disrupt your grand machinations."

"When the hells have I ever sent out avatars?"

"Don't you remember the Dragonchess game with Orcus? Or the Three Grand Wars of Iggwilv? The Fall of the Slaughtermind?" The knight just kept listing and listing these incredible events, and the Lord grabbed his own head, his glowing eyes bulging from his blacked skull. 

"I thought those were dreams!" the Lord yelped. "I didn't think any of those actually happened! I've been making a gods-forsaken ass of myself for five hundred years!"


	3. Danse Macabre

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Lord of Mortality watches on in terror as the apparent ‘city-state’ of Malady has a huge party that’s genuinely fun and wholesome.

The Lord of Mortality stood from his throne after the first panic attack had subsided, pacing in a circle as he rubs his shriveled temples. He drew in several useless breaths, a damning remnant of his humanity he had yet to eschew. The gilded knight and the Imp stood watching, as it seemed any attempt to ask what was wrong was rapidly met with a dismissal that anything was wrong at all. The room had more or less vacated since this episode had begun, as their attention was needed elsewhere- that was their excuse, at least.

“This is all too much,” the Lord repeats, and repeats again, “This is all too much... 500 years,” he seemed to be incapable of dropping. That was over ten of his human lifetimes, it seemed impossible in perspective. What all did he miss? Was everyone he knew dead now? Was he being worshipped by an entirely new generation of man? Nay, was it several generations? How far had culture progressed, did that Spellplague actually happen? 

What is that music? Wait, that question was a good one, what was that music.

“You two,” the Lord suddenly addresses, “What am I hearing?”

“Oh, that’s the Danse Macabre,” the knight spoke as if it was something the Lord knew anything about. He continues after the Lord glared him an unimpressed glare. “It’s a celebration in your name for whenever you woke up again.” While the Lord’s features were obscured, the knight watched as the mask slooped slightly downward in disappointment. As such, he braved himself for whatever fierce retort the Lord had prepared.

“...you’re telling me there’s a bunch of people out there... having fun and making merry and drinking- _drinking alcohol-_ and they’re just- in my Malady?” The Lord seemed more befuddled than infuriated. 

“Uh-huh,” was all the knight had. The Lord took a moment to contemplate once more.

“...well, can you make it stop?”

“Why would you w-“

“Don’t fething question me, you-!” snapped the Lord, before realizing, once more, that the pair in front of him were total strangers. “...who are you.”

“Your royal-“

“Names! Your fething names, spit them out!”

“I am Knight-Commander Cromwell Blightdemise, and, and this is Da’ryll,” the knight swiftly divulged, pointing to the Imp on his shoulder still.

“...Well, Cromwell and Da’ryll,” the Lord spoke calmly after an agitated sigh, “I need you to make sure this little ‘Danse Macabre’ ends as soon as possible.”

“Uh-huh, uh-huh,” Cromwell immediately replies, nodding viciously along with Da’ryll.

“Yeh, yeh, whatever you say, boss,” Da’ryll helplessly adds as Cromwell turns heel and high-tails it out the double doors of the throne chamber. The Lord crosses his arms, giving no notion of a dignified response as he sat back in his throne. They would be fools to defy the Lord’s will. His will be done.

An hour passes.

The bumping, brassy music has done nothing but get louder. People have begun singing, chanting grateful prayers in Infernal. The irony was far from lost on the Lord, and it only drove his belligerence further with time. Eventually, he decides enough is enough, and walks out of his palace. He eyes his surroundings, thankful that the miscreants that had invaded and called themselves ‘loyal’ hadn’t ruined the place, but as he stepped out the front gate, he felt true terror shake him to the core.

The little ruck-town of Malady was about 100 people, ever, at most.

The Lord was looking at what seemed to be a million.

“Stop!” he shrieked desperately, sprinting down the staircase of the palace, “Stop! Stop this, this- degeneracy! You’re all fun-having degenerates, stop!” But no one heard him. Sadly, the Lord very clearly heard him, and as he ran to the entire city-state that had been constructed, he heard the chant. 

‘Lord! Lord! Lord!’ 

This was the greatest moment in all of their insignificant lives and it was the epitome of agony for their deity.

The Lord rapidly began casting a Sending Spell, yelling obscenities and promises of torture to Cromwell. At the lack of response, the Lord only grew more furious.

As he reached the end of the ivory steps, the Lord strut through the crowded streets and pathways of the city. The chants were obnoxiously loud, and the cheering, gods above, the cheering! It was driving him mad!

“Cromwell!” he loudly snarled, “Cromwell! Where is Cromwell?! I need to find that bastard!” The people had nothing to say but declarations of their adoration, even as the Lich shoved his way past them as aggressively as he could. They all thought it was apart of the show.

In his search for the bastard knight and that gods-damned Imp, the Lord passers by market stalls, fanciful restaurants, a- he paused. A mages college? He barks in his confounded state, “What?!” It was, of course, drowned out by the glee of the mob he had accrued. He continued his stomping shortly after, stepping on an many toes as possible before stopping and realizing it was tripping him more than anyone else.

**“Cromwell!”** the Lord roars, his fists clenched. Oh, the things he would do to the knights once he got his hands on him...


	4. Moronic Lucidity

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Whilst charging the streets of Malady in search for Cromwell, the Lord of Mortality ends up seeing a face he never thought he'd see again.

The Lord's advance was relentless, and so too was his anger. He had entrusted Cromwell and his damnable Imp, Da'ryll, which was a stupid name for an Imp, to cease this celebration, and look where that had got him. He was now wading through an unending sea of bodies, sadly all of them living, and downright blissful in his presence. Such a display was the anathema to the Lord's values. Mortality shouldn't be wasted like this! It should be spent working, to forge magnificence, to create utility, not to needlessly gyrate hips! He yelled uselessly into the crowd, reminding them of their sins, and for some godsforsaken reason, they ate it up. They loved it, they loved being scolded, they rapidly made a game out of it. The Lord decided his only choice was to huff and move along as dauntlessly as he could. He took a look back to his ivory keep, to the depiction of himself in the stained glass. He was so concerned about all the people and things that had died or become unrecognizable over 500 years that he failed to realize that he, too, was unrecognizable. The Lord of yore wouldn't have acted so incorrigibly perturbed, but here we were. 

The Lord checked every alleyway, every door to every building he could find, and still, yet, he could not find this fool Cromwell. He even resorted to asking the people of the crowd for answers.

"Where is Cromwell Blightdemise?!" he demanded, shooting his arms up.

 **"Yeeeeeah!!"** hollered the crowd. The Lord cocked his head.

"What?!"

**"Yeeeeeeeeah!!"**

"Where is he?!"

**"Yeeeeeeeeeah!!"**

"You are no help at all, you miserable piles of Marid-"

_**"Yeeeeahahah!!"** _

The Lord loudly scoffs before turning back around, resuming his bulldozing of civilians. He wonders why he hasn't just teleported to Cromwell, then realizing that he was not at all familiar with this place and would probably teleport himself inside of a wall and have a new ache for the day. It then occurred to him that something had clamped onto his arm. It took him a second or two to ponder, realizing that, yes, one of these actual ingrates just snatched a hold of his arm. Apparently, they wanted to die.

This was fine, he thought, this would be an example.

A loud click was heard as the Lord's head shot over to his right, his ancient neck not geared for such speeds. Initially, at least, the plan was turn, then Power Word Kill, but he was staring at a large angel-woman now, and that didn't seem too feasible anymore.

He felt what was left of his heart drop as he glanced over the Celestial invader. Smiling. Warm, pale skin, white hair with just a tinge of sapphire. A dress of finer ivory than any of Malady's keeps, tight to the warrior-maiden's form, a set of incredibly pure, feathered wings on her back, and an ornate blindfold obscuring her eyes. 

"It's been so long," she spoke in Common, a sound most pleasing to mortal ears, like an orchestra of the finest instruments, a symphony of the ages with just a placid tone.

The Lord was not mortal, and he did not care. 

He was about to shake the woman off before she continued: "The Lord of Mortality, correct?"

"How do you know my name?" he interrogates with an ignorance-ridden tongue, only to be met with a godsdamned giggle.

"You're so silly," she continued, "I'm the reason you're here! Don't you remember?"

"Evidently, I do not, now leave me-"

"It's Zariel," the angel told him. The Lord looked at her incredulously. "The Archduke?"

"Why does everyone desire to lie to me."

"No, it's true! You helped redeem me, so-"

Time froze a second for the Lord. It seemed that, during his slumber, he had one of his avatars help a fallen angel return to the heavens.

For no reward. For no reason. He just did it to do it.

Zariel kept speaking, and the Lord kept thinking, hearing none of it. If he had performed a good deed on his own behalf, then certainly... 

"...so I wanted you to have..." Zariel pauses as she watches the Lord of Mortality slap every part of his body in an apoplectic panic. She backs up slightly, somehow intimidated. 

"The book," the Lord spat, "The book!"

"...just take this feather," she told him helplessly, putting one of her wings' feathers in his hand before floating off. The Lord didn't even notice.

"The book!" he erupted, hastily teleporting back into his throne room, hastily avoiding the crowd that was now slapping themselves in some sort of imitative dance routine in the Lord's honor. He searched the palace relentlessly, hunting down every corridor for anything that could serve as a container of some sort. 

Nothing.

The Book of Vile Darkness was gone. He had already figured as such, considering that the fell tome's curse was no longer upon him. While he was attuned to the Book, he would go blind and deaf whenever he was farther than 10 feet away from it. He had no clue why it decided to torment him as such, but this was far from abnormal behavior from the artifact. The Book takes from all of it's authors, often in more obtuse ways than just deafness and blindness. Still, as detrimental as the Book was, the Lord needed it's lore to keep the arcane stranglehold he had of the worlds. Without it, what was he? What was the lesser creature with the Book now doing with it? These questions plagued him relentlessly as he rolled across the carpeted flooring of Malady's palace. For hours on end, he moaned and groaned about how all of his plans were ruined. The multiverse no longer feared the Lord of Mortality. Nay, they laughed at it. All of these human regrets slammed into him, one by one, before it finally dawned on him. 

He can't die. Time can't kill him, nor could weapons. He absolutely had a problem now, but it was the Year of Black Regalia. It was the rise of Malady, he determined, his victory march. He could work to not have a problem later. 

All he needed was that Book...

And for that music to stop.


End file.
